Lydia’s Party

by Margaret Hawkins

“Other human beings,” Elaine whispered.

  Norris glanced at her, continued. “As you probably know, I haven’t worked from the figure much lately. Or really, ever. And maybe I should have asked your permission before I went ahead. I’d meant to ask you to come up for sittings, but the photos got me started and after that . . .” Norris looked around at the attentive but not yet fully comprehending faces, then shrugged. “Memory just seemed to be the way to go,” she said. “Please don’t anyone be insulted.”

  Elaine shot Celia a dark look. Celia pretended not to notice. “I also want to say this,” Norris continued. “I think of this show as a kind of tribute, to Lydia.” She paused, embarrassed. “For bringing us together.”

  Norris turned her back on the surprised murmur and opened the studio door.

  “I thought she hated us,” Elaine said, to no one in particular. They all filed in.

  • • •

  Around the perimeter of the enormous white-walled studio stood seven seven-foot-tall, five-foot-wide paintings. Each was a full portrait of a single figure. At the far end of the studio stood an eighth painting, even larger, a double portrait of Lydia and Maxine.

  “Where’s Malcolm?” Jayne whispered.

  Elaine snorted. “He got cut,” she whispered back. “He wouldn’t take off his coat.”

  “He’s not here,” Norris said. “Neither is Betsy’s dog. Only females.”

  “And Ted,” Betsy said, insulted.

  “Sorry. Of course,” Norris said. “And Ted.” They all turned to look at the painting of Ted.

  Incredibly, Norris had painted him nude. He stood, up to his ankles, in a clear pond bordered by a lavishly imagined version of Norris’s hyperabundant garden. In front of him, in both hands, he held Lydia’s orange pot, which mostly covered his genitals. Ted’s hair and beard and the pot, also a wisp of visible pubic hair, were all painted the same glowing color, a mix of alizarin crimson, cadmium yellow, and titanium white.

  Ted appeared lit from below, the orange of the pot reflected in a bright slice on the ample underside of his belly. Another slice of orange appeared under his double chin and, as if the enamel on the pot had bled into the surrounding air, orange light glinted on the pond’s surface, which was broken by ripples around Ted’s thick ankles. The little coarse hairs on his legs picked it up, too, as did the mackerel clouds in the sky. Ted’s blue eyes shone weirdly. It took a minute for them to notice that, reflected in the twin convex mirrors of both eyes, blazed two tiny forest fires.

  For once the women were speechless. Betsy looked like she might cry. “He’s the only one I asked to come for a sitting,” Norris said to Betsy, as if she’d asked.

  After the women had recovered from the shock of seeing Ted, and so much of him, they began to mill around, sipping from Norris’s big wineglasses.

  “These are incredible, Norris,” Celia said. There was no point in denying it. She’d returned to the painting of Ted, transfixed by his casserole-covered crotch.

  “Thank you,” Norris said, knowing it was true.

  She knew it was her best work yet. She’d taken a risk and it had paid off. She’d put the photographs away, painted from her composite memory of twenty years, giving the women—and Ted—glorious versions of their own bodies fabricated from her rich and generous imagination.

  “You gave me back my beautiful boobs,” Elaine said, for once not sarcastic.

  “It’s how we’ll look in heaven,” Maura said, standing in front of her own portrait, in love with her body, maybe for the first time. Norris’s version of her was better than any surgeon’s. Celia glanced over to see if Maura was making a joke but she didn’t appear to be.

  Norris didn’t know about heaven, but Maura had the general idea right. She’d meant them to look their best. The passing thought of painting them exactly as they’d looked that Saturday night had yielded to this more interesting, encompassing idea, each woman a composite of her best features over a life—the thought-sharpened faces of middle age, the smooth bellies and dense high breasts of youth. Even Ted’s paunch looked firm, royal.

  “This is gorgeous,” Celia said. She’d drifted away from Ted and was standing in front of the painting of Lydia and Maxine.

  Norris had painted them standing at the edge of the water, with no sight of land behind them. The lake was green. Maxine was in front, body in profile, like a prize heifer, her head turned to face the viewer. Silvery water dripped, flowed from her face as if she’d been drinking from some source so bounteous that it ran out of her like a fountain. Her broad muzzle was black and velvety, as it had been when she was a puppy, her orange eyebrows furrowed with intelligent concern. Lydia, naked and lovely as some medieval Eve, stood modestly behind the dog, one pale hand resting on Maxine’s broad black flank.

  Celia loved it, though she didn’t know what Lydia had been talking about. She couldn’t see what was so Burne-Jones about it. And the orange pot Lydia had referred to was nowhere in sight. Still, Lydia had told her to go look at the painting and now that Celia had seen it she wanted it.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it,” Norris said, stepping back and squinting. It wasn’t a question. It was plain truth that it was nice. Better than nice.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Celia said. “I mean, after the show comes down.”

  Norris shrugged. “My dealer’s shopping it around. A collector in Houston is interested.”

  “I want it,” Celia said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I want to buy this painting.”

  Norris almost laughed. “Oh, Celia. Don’t be ridiculous.” She crossed her long arms across her flat chest. “Natalie charges a fortune.”

  “I understand that,” Celia said. “I’m not asking for a discount. I’ll pay on installment—that’s how it’s done, isn’t it? But I want it.”

  Norris sat alone in her empty studio in a shaft of mid-morning light, drinking a cup of hot water and lemon juice. The women had just left—they’d spent the night in the guesthouse, which Kamal had vacated for the weekend. He needed to visit his grandmother, he’d said, although Norris had pointed out he didn’t have to leave. There was plenty of room in the main house, she’d said, if he wanted to stay, just this once.

  After a long breakfast—Maura had brought coffee cakes and Betsy brought fruit and Jayne made omelets and Celia made mimosas—the women headed out en masse just as the shippers arrived to pack the show. Now the work was well on its way and the women were driving by caravan back to Chicago.

  They’d decided to convoy in the driveway, on their way out, in case someone’s car broke down, they said. It’s three hours, Norris had said. It’s not like you’re crossing the Rockies in Conestoga wagons. She knew it would take them twice as long, that every time one stopped to go the bathroom they’d all have to stop and then they’d spend half an hour at some truck stop, buying snack food and aspirin. And Elaine needed cat food, she’d announced, at least a dozen times. She, with Maura’s encouragement, had adopted a stray of indeterminate gender that she’d named George Eliot, and it was all she talked about.

  What a bunch of old ladies they’d turned into, Norris thought, standing in the driveway, waving good-bye. She could hardly believe they were her oldest friends. Possibly her only friends. Though, until last night, half of them could hardly stand her.

  • • •

  Norris stared out the window now, toward the pond. She was thinking about her trip. She was supposed to leave in two weeks, fly to New York for the opening, meet with collectors. Natalie had set up dinners.

  Norris had made up an excuse when Kamal suggested he go along this time. “For moral support,” he’d said, handing her a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. As if she needed moral support.

  “Why don’t you be my immoral support and be here when I get back,” she’d said, and then was sorry when she saw his fa
ce. But she couldn’t allow that. Could she? That blending of worlds? Sam would be there, probably with his new girlfriend. He should be spared his mother’s randy side, at least for a few more years, shouldn’t he? Although it wasn’t really about Sam. He was an adult now, with a sex life of his own. The truth was she didn’t want some tagalong sycophant.

  Though that wasn’t fair, she thought. Kamal wasn’t Jay. She felt a little bad about that whole thing. He’d left in a tearful rage one night, brandishing the Beretta, briefly holding it to his temple before she’d disarmed him. She’d grabbed his phone off the bed and threatened to call his mother. Norris knew he kept her number on speed dial. She got the locks changed the next day. Kamal wasn’t like that. He was a grown-up, a marine. Though he was starting to get restless with their arrangement, she could tell.

  Men have feelings, too, Norris. She remembered someone saying that to her once. Who, though? Andy? Her mother? Lydia, of all people?

  Norris looked around the empty studio and exhaled. She felt good about this, at least. It was going to be a good show. Two paintings had already sold—the one of Ted and the self-portrait. She hadn’t planned to include herself but then decided to, after she figured out how to keep it from being too personal. She’d painted herself rigidly frontal and completely nude except for her face, which she’d swathed, burka-like, in a green paisley scarf. Really, the only part that was a portrait was the eyes; the body was just a pretty decoy.

  Natalie had told Norris she thought she could sell the whole show. The big painting of Lydia and Maxine would bring a lot, she’d said. The thing with Celia wanting it had thrown Norris for a loop, though. In the old days she would have just laughed in her face. Celia couldn’t afford a painting like that, even if she paid on installment for the rest of her life. Did she think Norris would be shamed into giving it to her? Ridiculous. It wouldn’t even fit in her fussy little house. Though Norris understood what Celia really wanted, and it wasn’t that painting. She wanted a memento, something of Lydia. Norris hoped Peter would talk Celia out of it.

  It bothered her, these messy complications, everyone’s wishes and wants and hurt feelings. They encroached on her freedom, took up her time. How was she supposed to sustain these newly deepened relationships—even the word made her queasy—if everyone kept making such unreasonable demands? Breakfast parties that took half your day, red wine for Elaine, who was guaranteed to spill, travel privileges for Kamal, whole paintings for Celia, sixtieth-anniversary parties, for God’s sake, for one’s elderly former in-laws that required the breaking of bread with one’s ex and his wife.

  Norris had been trying her best not to think about it. She’d stuffed the invitation, which she’d received from Sam two weeks earlier, back in its (shocking pink) envelope and slipped it under a book, but the thought of the thing lurking there nagged at her. Betty and Hank’s neighbors—with Sam’s help, apparently—were throwing Betty and Hank a surprise pizza-and-stuffed-meat-loaf party at the Traverse City VFW Clubhouse. Tomorrow.

  Sam kept texting her, then e-mailing, trying to get her to say she’d go. The messages came in insistent little blips. “Dad and Janet will be there. They told me to tell you you should come.” “Gram would love to see U.” “We picked up the flat-screen TV today. I’ll add your name to the card.” “Shirley’s gonna sing!”

  According to the invitation, the Stemwinders, the seventeen-piece all-VFW-member band, led by tubaist Gil Cross, was already rehearsing. “Dancing to a selection of big band favorites” would commence after lunch. Norris could picture the sheet cake now.

  How did reasonable people manage all this nonsense, and still get anything done?

  Never mind, she thought, taking a sip of hot lemon water. The main thing was that the work was good. Finished, packed, and gone. And now her studio was empty again, except for two tiny photos she’d tacked to the wall.

  Norris dragged her chair over to sit in front of them. One was the Polaroid she’d taken at the party, two years before—Lydia in front of her fireplace, looking jaundiced and shrunken in too-bright lipstick, with that enormous orange pot in her lap, weighing her down like a stone on a leaf. The other photo was thumbtacked next to it. It showed the second, smaller painting of Lydia, the one Norris hadn’t shown them, which was still in the storage closet.

  She got up and went to the closet, dragged the painting from where she’d hidden it behind a blank stretched canvas, and brought it over to lean against the wall in front of her chair. The painting looked like a smudge in the bright white studio. It was almost monochromatic. She’d ended up using all tones of gray—yellowish gray skin, bluish gray sheets—sick room colors. It showed Lydia half covered with a sheet, only her head and neck and bare wasted arms showing. Her eyes were open—conscious, staring. She was shrunken, but still herself. In the dark, hovering over her body, Norris had painted the ghost of the orange pot.

  She’d based the painting on the dozens of photographs and charcoal drawings she’d made at the end, showing Lydia in bed, her by-now-colorless hair across the pillow, sheets tumbled like waves around her wasted body. Norris had asked Lydia’s permission, first to draw her and later to make the photos, and Lydia had agreed to it all. Norris wasn’t sure she would, and had wondered whether it would be too terrible to go ahead in secret after Lydia fell fully into unconsciousness, but she hadn’t needed to. The first time Norris asked, Lydia had nodded once and said, whispered actually, “Fame, at last,” then closed her eyes. The second time she’d raised her hand a few inches from the sheet, and let it drop.

  In most of the drawings Maxine sprawled next to Lydia, big, solid, and black. In some, Lydia’s eyes were half open, dog and woman staring out as if already from the afterlife. In one Lydia even appeared to smile a little. That really happened, Norris remembered it, though it seemed incredible now. She’d never shown that drawing, or any of them, to anyone.

  What a strange time it had been, Norris thought now, looking out the window at the snow that had begun to fall. She could hardly believe now that any of it had happened, that they’d gone through that together, she and Lydia, that they’d talked that way with each other, finally, as they never had before.

  Then Lydia died, and Norris put the drawings and photos away. It wasn’t until she was finishing the big painting of Lydia and Maxine, eighteen months later, that she got them out again.

  She’d laid them all on the floor of her studio one morning, as reference, she’d thought, and spent the day looking at them. The next morning, she started a new painting, and in a week it was finished. At first she thought it belonged in the show, as a transition piece, a hint of more to come, maybe, or just as a dark note, but in the end she saw that it didn’t belong. In so many ways, it didn’t match the others.

  Norris had wondered, as she’d worked on the second painting, if it was too strange, too personal. She’d wondered if people would think it was exploitive somehow, if they’d understand that it had been a collaboration, that Lydia had agreed to this, wanted it, even. But there was no way to prove that, and finally Norris decided she didn’t care what people thought.

  She hadn’t shown it to anyone yet, though. Partly it was that she didn’t know what to make of it. The painting was smaller than she usually worked, and much looser, more transparent. She’d drawn in charcoal first, on the canvas, and then painted over the drawing so the charcoal blended with the paint and the turpentine and made the whole thing gray. She’d planned to add color later but then she didn’t. It might be a study, she thought. Or it might be the beginning of a new series, all loose, all gray, all Lydia.

  Norris turned the painting to face the wall and went back to staring at the two little photos. The double orange dots of the casserole pulsed in the all-white room.

  Usually this was the best hour of all, after everything had been carted off and she was alone, between projects, on the verge of a new idea. Anything was possible now; everything was. This must be
what it was like to be a virgin bride, she sometimes thought, waiting for her groom. Sometimes she started a new painting the same day.

  But today felt different. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Norris didn’t feel like working. She felt a strange new impulse, one she’d heard of but never experienced. She wanted to take a break. She felt like taking the day off, maybe the whole week. Or two. Maybe she’d take a vacation, she thought, a vacation from her life, from being Norris.

  Though she wasn’t sure she knew how. Always before, after she’d packed up work for a show, she’d returned to the studio immediately. That day, when possible. And it wasn’t just will that drove her back, her famous self-discipline. She wanted to, looked forward to it. She always had ideas for new work, was impatient to start the next thing. Usually by the time she’d finished a show her mind had moved on to something else and it had happened this time, too. She’d started a new sketchbook midway through the painting of Ted. She’d written Deities inside the front cover. She was thinking of doing more figures, maybe a suite of twelve, possibly the Greek gods. She planned to use Kamal as a model.

  Oprah = Zeus? she’d written under a torn-out magazine picture she’d taped to one page. She’d crossed out Zeus and written Athena and under that she’d written Zeus = Bill Clinton? She’d made a little sketch of him in a suit and tie, his face looking pouchy and soulful, holding a thunderbolt on his lap. Next to that was another sketch that showed him naked, heroic, ithyphallic.

  But these were cartoons, not paintings. Nothing there, she decided, tossing the sketchbook aside.

  She sat in her low, overstuffed armchair, the one she’d liberated from her grandmother’s sewing room fifteen years earlier. It was upholstered in pale yellow and cream silk that had gone dingy with time, an incongruity in the otherwise stark white studio. It was the one soft thing she kept there, and the comfort of it allowed her to sit a while longer.

  She imagined twelve twelve-foot paintings of gods and goddesses with Baroque lighting, maybe in flight, seen from below, like Tiepolo angels. Maybe she should go to Venice, she thought. See the Tiepolos again, get inspired. Maybe she should do it now. She could, she thought. She had time. She certainly could afford it. She could leave today, fly to Rome, catch a connecting flight, and be there by tomorrow night. Walk from church to church, stopping by the water to eat sardines in lemon juice and drink espresso. It was a pleasant thought. But even that, the thought of such a trip, felt burdensome, like entertainment, not inspiration. She didn’t feel like being a tourist, even for art.